Five Ways Amos Cochran Didn't Die
by mooncustafer
Summary: A series of AU vignettes. Violence, character death, some coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

1. It happened very quick, as it usually does. The toddler was crabby and listless; it might have been the heat of late summer, or spoiled victuals. When the following day he was no better, the usual remedies were tried. That afternoon he rubbed his neck as he cried; within a few hours he no longer cried, or made any sound; and his limbs began to turn black.  
Before the burial, his mother clipped a lock of his hair, a little curled wisp of chestnut. His sisters used to take it out when they were alone, and stroke it. Once, while they were still wearing mourning, they renacted the funeral with wild flowers and a sewing-box, and worked themselves into such fits of weeping that their parents scarcely had the heart to punish them, and could only chide them, when they were a little quieted, that it was heathenish to weep over-much for their little brother, when he was in Heaven and happy; and, as one of the girls said later to the other, you never could tell with babies if they were going to stay or no.


	2. Chapter 2

2. Whether it was a nick from a bone-saw, or whether the infection was airborne, it remains that two weeks after his coming to the field hospital, Cochran was himself tossing feverishly on a cot in one of the mildewed tents.  
"Doc's tryin' to get up again," bellowed the patient in the next cot over, a youth whose left arm he had but a day before amputated above the elbow. A couple of burly nurses at the other end of the tent sighed and came over to pin down Cochran until he returned to full unconsciousness. This had been going on at intervals all morning.  
"Can't lie a-bed, too much to do. Let me go, damn your eyes." He writhed beneath their arms with more strength than an observer would have credited to his slight frame. His eyes (as opposed to the ones he was lustily damning), at all time unsettling in their lucidity, now with the added brilliance of fever were downright meteoric - a resemblance that did not invite hope for their owner's fate.  
As an omen this proved correct - after a fashion. The doctor did not die that day, or the next; indeed, physically he seemed to recover, though he was weak for several months, and was discharged and removed to a hospital far from the fields of conflict. There the physicians discovered, as Cochran recovered strength, that he had suffered an amnesia of a peculiar kind never seen before. Quite unable to recall any event subsequent to his days at medical school, he was moreover incapable of taking the impression of any new memory. The doctors, and his family, were at a loss to know what to do with him - though neither mad nor mentally enfeebled, there was plainly no way he could make his way in the world. When his older sister attempted to take him under her roof, he was constantly puzzled and annoyed by the presence of so many unfamiliar guests - her children and husband. The latter eventually persuaded his wife to place her brother in the Eastern Lunatic Asylum in Williamsburg.  
The staff quickly found the best way of dealing with their absent-minded, or rather absent-memoried, patient was to let him help in the infirmary, where he believed himself to be a new doctor just arrived. His colleagues, as he thought them, came to appreciate the extra pair of hands, though it took them some time to grow accustomed to the way that Cochran never grew accustomed to them - he never was able to learn their names, invariably apologizing for his rudeness:  
"Just finished my diploma and came here directly, still wet behind the ears as they say." As the years passed, they began to take care not to let him see his reflection, for the unfamiliar face looking back always alarmed him deeply (albeit briefly, for ten minutes later he would recall nothing of the incident), and he was by then, quite unawares, a sort of legend around the place and a great favorite. Visitors would always ask to meet the old man with young eyes; he would greet them with curious, outmoded gentility and then shyly ask them if they, too, had just joined the hospital. The only visitors Cochran ever recognized were his sisters, though he now took them for his mother and cousin:  
"Mama," he would greet them anxiously: "You should have waited a few months, I'm not settled in yet. I'm sure I don't know where I shall be able to entertain you and cousin Bets." Someone would always show them to a quiet room. "Wonderful how friendly they're being to the new boy. I'm sure I'll be happy here - and so much work to be done."  
One day in 1888, he dropped the basin he was carrying and crumpled to the floor.  
"Forgive me, sir," he whispered to the doctor who checked his fluttering pulse. "Was up all night cramming for exams. Can scarcely keep my eyes open."  
Another minute and Cochran's brief, long, unfinished life had flickered out.


	3. Chapter 3

3. _Chapter III. _**_A Knife in the Camp's Heart_**_  
'Leon', the opium-fiend; invades the doctor's cabin in quest of laudanum; human life meaningless to one in the grip of craving,; innocent waif, sole survivor of the Spearfish massacre, again in peril; Dority's arrival on an errand, his quick action; craven death of the addict; the rescued child adopted by Mrs Alma Garret; an extract from Dr Cochran's eulogy by the late Rev Smith. _  
(from "Gold Dust and Muddy Coffee: Memories of the Early Days of Deadwood", A. W. Merrick, 1882)

Hammering, rattling on the cabin door - it's frantic, but strangely lacking in force. It doesn't sound like the sort of emissary Al would send. Easy there, old fellow - Al's not the only danger in camp. But when your cabin's the nearest thing there is to a hospital, you can hardly keep the door locked. Stand up; never mind that your leg's gone to sleep. Still got the pistol? Good. Slide the bolt and open the door, just a crack. It's the dope-fiend - what's his name? Scrawny fair-haired fellow.  
"You gotta give me somethin' for these shakes, doc."  
"I'm with a --" He doesn't need to know about your patient; he might yet be a spy. "Hang it, Leon, it's the drugs givin' you the DTs in the first place. You don't need more." Stubborn fool: having recalled his name, you couldn't just have given him the laudanum and sent him on his way, could you? Or shown him the pistol? Useless, purely useless.  
"The devil take you, then." And he stabs you.  
Leon may have the shakes, but the bastard's aim with a knife is dead perfect - or possibly your luck has finally run its course, for the blade slides in between your ribs, then out - strangely painless; but hot liquid quickly begins to soak your shirt. A dark and spreading stain across the left side of your vest. Press down on it before you lose consciousness; you won't last thirty seconds if you hit the floor, and then the kid'll be alone with one whose cravings for the drug have overridden any scrap of conscience or logic he might have had left.  
He hasn't seen the little girl yet - too busy rummaging through the bottles on the shelves. Lurch toward the door; you can rest against the handle for a moment; not too long. Blood's starting to seep between your fingers now.  
"I see you there, doc. I'm real sorry I had to knife yer, but my need was greater than yours. Don't you go tryin' to leave, though, or I'll have to see that you keep quiet." Who does he think he is? Hell's bells, all he can do is knife you again. Pull the latch and something like an icicle lodges between your shoulder blades, and you're falling through the doorway but you land against something solid and warm. A big hand takes hold of each of your arms as you squint up into Dan Dority's face. O no.  
"Don't try to stop me - why're you bleeding?" The man's a mixed bag - comes here to kill your patient, but you'd swear as to the concern in his voice; his surprise is genuine, at any rate - wasn't expecting to find anyone here but you and the little girl. Leon's gibbering in terror by the table:  
"I swear to God, Dan, I didn't mean to do it. I jes' wanted some dope, an' he wouldn't give it me." Pull at Dan's arm, not that you'd be able to halt him physically even if you weren't leaking arterial blood front and back; but it's Leon he's going for. The addict screams as the big man lands a probably-lethal blow, and you're on the floor now, and you can't see so good, but you can hear other voices at the door:  
"What's the fuckin' row?!" "Doc's bleedin' on the floor." "Dan's got the dope-fiend - there's a little girl here." "Must be the one they saved the other night - get her out of here." They're fading too, now, and your vision's gone quite black. The last thing you hear is the cheers for Dan - your avenger, and rescuer of the child....


	4. Chapter 4

4. Doc had started his drinking as soon as Reverend Smith was removed from his cabin; with intervals of railing at the Almighty, he kept it up for a day and about half of a night, until Al came to tell him his prayers had been answered, and to drag him to the Gem to do his drinking in company. It was, he supposed, a debased form of sympathetic concern; but alone was all that he wanted to be - alone and drunk. He wondered, if he downed enough whiskey, could he blot out the light and noise of the place.  
Jewel was sweeping out the kitchen, trying to keep out of sight of Al and the clientele, but seeing Doc, she could not forbear what seemed an accusatory glance at her dragging leg. Another individual he'd failed. Shakily he poured himself another shot. He reckoned there were three- no, two more in the bottle.  
He recalled the specimens he'd seen in college, long ago in their jars - probably still there now, floating in the spirits that had kept time and the outside world at bay. Foetuses human and animal - little difference between them at that age; a pair of kidneys, curiously feminine in their curved mirrored shapes; brains of men and women, alongside the shelves of skulls of the different races (for comparative study). He'd loved the brains from the moment he'd first laid eyes on their delicate crenellations. To think that _these_ were what one thought _with_; only the specimens no longer thought, or even dreamt, however languorously they might drift. He envied them.  
The effects of the alcohol were creeping over him at last, wrapping his head in cotton-wool; the sounds of the saloon dulled and drifted -- still his own thoughts were no less insistent. It worried him that he was about to be mawkish, and he poured and downed another in hopes of hurrying on to unconsciousness before he said anything embarrassing. Setting down the bottle proved difficult; it took many moments to get it to stand upright on the counter. At last, satisfied it wasn't going to tip over, he let go the neck - and realized he was still holding the empty glass in his other hand. He paused, unable to decide if he should set down the glass, or to fill it, which would require him to go through the trouble of picking up the bottle again.  
Forty minutes later he was stubbornly arguing that he'd never seen any evidence that drunkards could spontaneously combust - set themselves on fire yes, and easily, but the alcohol didn't saturate the tissues, as his opponent would have it, and render them flammable--  
"Who are you talking to, Doc? Not that it's my business if you want to argue with an invisible man, but that cocksucker's got a temper on him, so you might want to leave him be and have some coffee." Dimly, he took in Al's expression and made out that the saloon-keeper was finding it troublesome to not laugh. He briefly considered taking a swing at him, but he'd sworn an oath a long time ago about doing no harm, so he grudgingly let Swearingen take hold his arm and steer him towards - no, not _her _domain --  
"What's the goddamn matter with you? It's the kitchen, not a firing squad. Thought you might prefer a quiet spot for that coffee." The little man had violently wrested his arm away, and was giving the kitchen door such as look as damned souls likely give to the gates of hell:  
"Must go now--"  
"All right then, Doc, it's all right." Al put out a hand to steady him but he was wary of capture as a wild animal.  
"I really must leave. Don't - don't you dare try to stop me." He seized his hat from the bar and jammed it on his head. Terribly important it was that he not leave his hat, though he couldn't have said why. Mumbling apologies, he stormed, head down, towards the front door, ignoring all the half-overheard expressions of surprise and concern at his uncharacteristic and untoward behaviour. Into the night, and still ignoring the voices - though they were shouts of warning now - until of a sudden, something hit him with great force, and he knew no more.

Al swore with more than his usual vigor, and with genuine grief.


	5. Chapter 5

5. A lot of people came and sat by Cochran's bed in that last week, but he was so befogged with fevers he could not be sure which conversations were true and which were delirium. Once he thought Al stood over him, cursing as if he could rule Cochran's lungs as he did the camp, clearing them of the rot by sheer force of will, or dint of sound. Another time it seemed to him he tried to push Trixie and Jewel from his side, railing at them for risking contagion; and that Trixie's face first hardened and then filled with understanding, and she took Jewel in her arms and with effort pulled her away.  
They must not have left altogether, though, for cups were from time to time brought to his lips and wet cloths to his temples; and when he was aware enough to notice his bedding, it was not so soiled as the sheets of a man dying alone ought to be. Sol would sit beside Trixie at times, holding her hand. He was glad to see that. He woke once to find the sheriff watching him stolidly, something burning in his gaze as if, like Al, he wished he could take on the disease by physical force, and he almost smiled at the sight.

Merrick was a frequent visitor, sneezing and tearful, yet jotting down notes.  
"You're not writing me up," Doc whispered to the newspaperman, who blew his nose on a rather florid handkerchief.  
"Whether you like it or not," he said gently, "as the only doctor in camp, your illness is news, important news."  
"You mean my death," snapped Cochran, with an effort that cost him two full minutes of coughing; but he had to admit the man was not wrong. He was still gasping for breath when he felt a hand grasp his. Trying to push him back, he opened his eyes to see Merrick, handkerchief to mouth but keeping a firm grip on his fingers.  
"I know you're concerned about contagion, doctor, but I would take some small risk at least, to shake your hand." Though his voice was muffled by the handkerchief, the quaver in it was audible, and Doc's resolve weakened enough to squeeze his hand briefly, before he let go and gestured the other man away.

In the end, when the final agony came, Mose Manuel was the one in the room, his bulk supported by two chairs drawn up to the bed. His moon face had been looming at the window for a few days - ashamed or afraid to come in until it was plain the last chance was at hand. It had been... a day? two days? - he was no longer sure - since Cochran had been able to speak. He'd been dozing, occasionally waking to cough, but flat on his back as he was, his sunken chest was scarcely able to draw a little air to his clogged lungs. Scrabbling frantically at Mose's arm he sought to pull himself upright; and his visitor seemed to understand, for he slid a massive hand beneath Cochran's shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position, keeping his arm around him for support.  
Propped up thus, the breaths came a little easier; and there was a dull kind of comfort in resting against the fat man's chest like an infant held by its nurse.  
If only the behemoth wouldn't sob so:  
"Why're folks always dyin' that ain't deservin' of it?"  
Doc would have given all his remaining minutes of life to have his voice back for ten seconds. It's all right, Mose. Dying isn't something you only get one run at. But the words were a hoarse unintelligible rattle when he tried to utter them, and their only effect was to make Mose clutch him tighter to his bosom.

A part of Cochran rustled with dry laughter at the realization that his last sight in this world was to be Mose's doughy face tilted over him and twitching with grief.  
Then that thought, too, faded, and something deeper than sleep took him.

_The End_


End file.
